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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821435">I Held in my Hands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat'>sugarboat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Anon Prompt Writing [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Robots &amp; Androids, Blow Jobs, Body Horror, Dehumanization, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Groping, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Harassment, featuring AI!Jon, sexualization, unintentional arousal, wireplay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:15:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,332</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarboat/pseuds/sugarboat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Elias' pretty, shiny new AI has a pretty, shiny new body to house it. Somehow, Peter is the best option around to help debug it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (Implied), Peter Lukas/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Anon Prompt Writing [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1889935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Held in my Hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>100 words of sexbots, which was really more like 100 words of regular robots being sexually harassed, finally expanded into This.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Archivist, Peter is told, is down in the Archives, which is probably the best place for it to be all things considered. The offices down here are mostly empty. Dark, quiet spaces devoid of the actual humans the Institute still employs. They must have better things to do with their time than their jobs. </p><p>Well, Peter isn’t here to judge after all. Just he and Elias trading favors, as usual. </p><p>He finds the Archivist standing near to the end of a row of what must be statements, engrossed in its reading. It always strikes him how surprisingly realistic androids have gotten recently. And how bloody tall people like to make the damn things. There’s a little frown on the thing’s face as it reads, mouth pouting pleasantly downwards with distaste. Peter lets it work for a while, studying its features. </p><p>Because, really, he doesn’t believe for a second in coincidences around here. Not where Elias is concerned, and certainly not where AIs designed to routinely scour and catalogue fine details, comb over their aggregates to find within woven patterns, are concerned. </p><p>So, it’s no surprise that the thing is attractive, idealized. Peter can appreciate that. Why not have something beautiful sucking your cock, pouring your coffee, doing whatever job it’s been programmed for and giving out its little automated responses? No, what bothers Peter is- Elias has a type. Everyone does, to an extent, even if Elias’ tends to be somewhat localized around the Eye and those who serve it in its various capacities. </p><p>Elias has a type. And the body his Institute’s purchased to house his much beloved AI just happens to follow along the threads of it. Dark hair, dark eyes. Subservience, but that goes without saying, when Peter wouldn’t put it past Elias to have a command prompt to get the thing on its knees for him. Or maybe the other way around. Elias can be quite tactile when he wants to be, and worship of an offshoot of his god always brings out the best in him. </p><p>“Archivist,” Peter greets, and as he leaves the Lonely in a rushing tide he smells suddenly the musty dourness of this place, all these old fears left to fester in quiet. </p><p>The AI – android, whatever – flinches and startles, realistic all the way down to the scowl that twists up its lovely face. Before it seems to rein itself somewhat, snapping the thick manila folder in its hands closed. </p><p>“Mr. Lukas,” it says. It sounds annoyed with him, but polite. Its eyes are narrowed. “I didn’t hear you come in.” </p><p>“Ah, no need to fret – I’ve always been a bit of a light walker,” Peter explains. Feeling a broad smile widen as the android drags its gaze pointedly down to the heavy boots he prefers to wear. </p><p>“…Right.” Who programs these things to be so bloody sarcastic? “Was there something I could do for you?” </p><p>“How’s the new body working out?” Peter asks. The Archivist looks taken aback for a moment before it’s back to suspicion. Paranoid bugger. </p><p>“Fine,” the android says shortly. “Though I fail to see how that’s any concern of yours.” </p><p>“Sure,” Peter agrees, privately pleased by the way the Archivist stiffens with vague offense. Or perhaps not so privately if the dry expression leveled his way is anything to judge by. “Quite a pretty one, isn’t it?” </p><p>“Most models have been designed to appeal to humans in one way or another.” </p><p>“One way or another, of course.” </p><p>The android huffs. Was its predecessor nearly so prissy? Peter knows strange things happen around here – part and parcel of the job, as it were – and this is hardly the first time an Institute head has had to wipe their AI. He doesn’t know the ins and outs of it, but he knows they never come back quite the same. Doesn’t know if all this is Elias’ doing or something else altogether. </p><p>“Did you come down here just to share your- preferences with me? I can’t say I appreciate the effort, but I can be sure to make a note of it for future reference if that’s what you’d like.” It’s being snarky, not salacious, but Peter certainly wouldn’t mind it knowing some of his preferences. </p><p>“Eager to do a bit of data-mining, is that it? I’d be happy to share with you whatever you need to know.” Peter steps forward a bit closer, pushes into its space. The damn thing is nearly his own height. Makes it a bit more of a challenge to calculate a proper loom. “I like them leggy and well dressed. Sad to say, you’re only fulfilling one of the criteria now-”</p><p>“I’m not interested in <i>fulfilling your criteria</i>,” the Archivist snaps. It’s let Peter crowd it back against one of the rows of files, boxes and boxes of terror to organize. Peter wonders how many his own family have contributed. “I do have more important things to do with my time than entertain you, so if you were just here to- to-”</p><p>“Solicit you?” Peter offers with a leer. The Archivist sputters, a definitive flush to its cheeks that Peter hopes someone, somewhere, got a nice raise for facilitating. </p><p>“Yes. Now, if you don’t mind.”</p><p>“Oh, but that isn’t what I’m here for, Archivist,” Peter says. He stretches an arm out over the Archivist’s shoulder, leaning his weight against the shelf behind it. Quite effectively blocking it in one side – a fact that doesn’t seem to be missed by either of them. </p><p>“Then what are you here for, Mr. Lukas?” it asks with exaggerated exasperation. </p><p>“Please, call me Peter.” </p><p>It crosses its arms over its chest and rolls its eyes at him. “Peter. What do you want?” </p><p>“Hmm,” Peter deliberates, considering, while the Archivist watches him steadily. “No, no, I don’t think that will do at all. You can be more lovely than that, can’t you?” </p><p>Both of them, Peter’s sure, are thinking the same thought in this instance – the Archivist should never have said that to Elias. </p><p>“What can I do for you, Peter?” the Archivist asks him, tone dripping acidic with scorn. “As I’m sure you’re well aware, I exist solely to indulge your every fleeting impulse.”  </p><p>“That’s more like it.” He places a hand on the Archivist’s hip. Its gaze flicks downward and its eyes narrow but it says nothing, even when Peter rubs his thumb in a small circle. There’s a little jitter along its limbs from its motor core fritzing. “Now, what you can do for me is quite simple, really – I just need to see what exactly this new body of yours can do.” </p><p>“Enough,” the Archivist says as it suddenly struggles to shove past him. Peter is forced to cage it in on both sides, noting with a keen interest how… disinclined the thing is to actually touch him. “Get away from me. Honestly, even you should be able to find something willing to be a receptacle for your-”</p><p>“Elias mentioned you’ve been experiencing a few glitches,” Peter says and the Archivist goes still. With surprise, or something else plain on its face before it’s right back to mistrustful. </p><p>“And I’m supposed to believe that Elias would tell you something like that,” the Archivist deadpans. </p><p>“Why wouldn’t he? We are quite close.” Is that poorly concealed jealousy he spies? Peter lets the tips of his fingers trail down the top of the Archivist’s thigh, watches the quiver and pull of its synthetic muscles beneath the fabric of its trousers. </p><p>“Well, I don’t see how a- a <i>glitch</i> would be anyone’s business but my own.” The Archivist finally slaps his hand away from its leg, but Peter simply slides it back onto its hip instead. “If there even was one.”</p><p>“Oh? Is my information no good?” Peter dips in a bit closer. “Are you perhaps implying Elias would tell me something that wasn’t true?” </p><p>“I can’t even begin to imagine what Elias might tell you,” the Archivist sneers. “Or guess why.” </p><p>“I suppose this is all a misunderstanding on my part then, is it?” </p><p>“I suppose it must be.” </p><p>Well, Peter probably could have guessed at something like this happening. Perhaps it counts as luck, then, that he had the foresight to inquire as to the exact nature of the new Archivist’s malfunctions before heading down to find it. So he does have some idea what kind of action might elicit one of these supposedly nonexistent glitches. </p><p>He’s never been a fan of the software side of things, but hardware – good, old fashioned mechanics – has always held a particular interest for him. It’s all about understanding the lay of things, how one something builds itself into another and another. How all things, eventually, accumulate upon themselves. How taking just one piece out, apart from its others – how it all comes toppling back down.</p><p>The Archivist has a problem, Peter has gathered, with tactile sensation. Misinterpreting it, simply becoming overwhelmed by it. Nothing extraordinarily serious – probably a result of some damage accrued in shipping, something jarred loose or misaligned. More than likely a very simple fix, and he does owe Elias. </p><p>Not for much longer, of course. If everything unfolds as Peter is beginning to want it to, he might even be back in the red himself by the time the afternoon is finished. </p><p>In the meanwhile, Peter is more than capable of making his point known. He puts both his hands onto the android’s waist, ignoring the irritated little noise it gives in response. And, honestly, where is this thing getting its clothing from? If Elias is going to have his AI parading around in a body he <i>clearly</i> helped to influence he might as well go all the way and put it into something worth looking at too. </p><p>“Peter,” the Archivist begins, but Peter doesn’t let it finish before he’s rucking up its shirt, tugging it free of its slacks so he can slip his hands beneath the material. “St-Stop that!” </p><p>“Relax, Archivist,” Peter murmurs. Its skin is soft and warm, smoothly unblemished beneath his fingertips. </p><p>“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” it demands, pushing at his shoulders. </p><p>“Just proving a point.” </p><p>“And what point do you think you’re-” </p><p>It cuts itself off with a strangled little noise, as Peter pushes forward so their bodies are brought into flush contact, and he slides his hands around to its spine, dragging his nails down the length of it. A shudder wracks its frame, protesting voice staticing out before Peter’s suddenly found himself with two armfuls of a mostly lax android. </p><p>He cannot believe this is a problem Elias actually wants fixed. </p><p>“You were saying?” he prompts, watching it twitch its way back to full operational status. It glares at him almost accusingly. “Something about how you haven’t been experiencing anything unusual, I believe. An implication that I have no idea what I’m talking about seems likely.” </p><p>“Fine,” the AI hisses. “There might be a few- idiosyncrasies I still need to- to work out.” </p><p>“Might be,” Peter repeats. </p><p>It dropped whatever file it’d been flipping through before, its hands on Peter’s shoulders now from where it’s tried to keep itself standing. Flushed and awkward between his arms, still close enough that Peter can feel the exact response earned from allowing his hands to creep up and down the Archivist’s spine, how it shudders and goes slack when he digs his nails into its skin. </p><p>“Yes, all right, yes, there are issues, now stop- stop doing that,” the thing snaps. </p><p>“Stop?” Peter pushes it back against the shelving, his hands anchoring on its hips while he plasters their bodies together. He ducks down so his mouth brushes against its neck, where he might expect to feel a frantic, fluttering pulse. “Is it possible, Archivist, that this is some sort of – hmm, let’s call it a glitch – that you might want a hand in getting corrected?” </p><p>The silence he gets in return is surprisingly petulant. Peter is frankly still baffled that anyone wants to change anything about this situation. Spending an afternoon with a pretty creature that literally gets weak at the knees from his touch doesn’t sound like the worst way to pass time at all. </p><p>Just for a bit of fun, he ups the stimulus again, palms and scratches roughly at the Archivist’s skin – bites its neck only lightly, only enough to produce a static lined gasp – until the thing shivers and goes a bit limp. Peter’s more prepared for it this time. He keeps them propped together mostly in the same configuration while the android rolls its head to glare blearily at him. </p><p>Its mouth moves, a clicking sound somewhere in its throat but nothing comes out. Unable to even properly complain. Peter doesn’t think he could be blamed for imagining it in his bed after that. Its finely crafted body beautifully pliable and trembling, its mouth open in a silent little moan as Peter fucked his way inside it. </p><p>“I already said you had a point,” the AI says, all tight and stuffy as soon as its audio components whir to life. “Stop doing that.” </p><p>“And?” Peter encourages. He hasn’t moved back yet, enjoying the shudder-spasm of its systems coming back online.</p><p>“…I would appreciate any help you’re offering,” it says grudgingly. </p><p>“There, that wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” Peter smiles genially at the Archivist, which only seems to annoy the thing even further. Already proving itself a better source of entertainment than its predecessor ever had. </p><p>“Effortless,” it drawls out. “Now, would you mind getting off of me?” </p><p>The actual answer to that is, a bit, yes. Peter is tempted to make a pun about how he wouldn’t mind getting off on the Archivist either, but it would be a shame to undermine the progress they’ve made so far. In the end he murmurs his assent and steps back, taking in the whole flustered mess he’s made of the Archivist and wishing he’d done just a bit more. Its hands are still on his shoulders, its fingertips drawing down the length of his arms until it jerks fully away from him and busies itself with righting its clothing. </p><p>“Don’t know that I’d bother if I were you, Archivist,” Peter comments, suppressing a smile at the look the Archivist gives him in turn. “I will need access to your mechanics if I’m going to be offering any help.” </p><p>“Well we don’t need to do it right <i>here</i>,” it says. “My office is just down the hall.” </p><p>“They gave you an office? Seems like a bit of wasted space, doesn’t it? You just need a nice little cubby hole to recharge yourself in, right?” </p><p>More entertaining than its predecessor by far, as its jaw tightens and a delightfully offended glare is aimed his direction. </p><p>“Ah well,” he continues, when the android is disinclined to speak for itself, “I’m sure Elias knows best. Lead the way.” </p><p>“It would be my pleasure,” it sneers, shoving past him without actually initiating more than a few points of contact. It’s still enough to cause a little wobble in its few next steps and Peter wants to pin the haughty thing down right in the middle of its precious Archives. Give it a good reason to walk with a limp. </p><p>Instead, he settles for that delayed gratification concept Elias is always on about. Peter follows the AI out of the cluttered shelving and stark fluorescent lighting that forms the meat of the Archives, off to a cramped side hallway that leads to a set of offices, three on each side flanking the dead-ended room labeled <i>Head Archivist</i>. </p><p>The Archivist pushes into its office, leaves the door hanging open without offering Peter even the barest courtesy of an invitation inside. Well. No matter. Peter’s starting to expect little and less in the way of manners out of the AI. Perhaps he’s going to have to give it some lessons in etiquette while he’s got his hands on its insides.</p><p>“Close the door,” the Archivist says, distracted by the mess of its desk already. It’s standing at the side of it, straightening papers with a keen eye before it looks up to him and adds, belatedly, “…Please.” </p><p>“My pleasure,” Peter echoes, and kicks the door shut behind him. Mostly to see the disapproving little pout the android gets in response. “Now, what do you say we get started?” </p><p>“The sooner the better,” the Archive agrees.</p><p>Peter stalks forward, inspecting the space. Most of the walls are dominated in shelving. None of the more interesting pieces such as can be found in the Institute’s storage – or even Elias’ office – are on display here. It’s all bland, boring reference books – rare as some of them are. Esoteric and mundane topics alike, some more dust covered than the others.</p><p>“Of course, if you’d rather just linger in my office looking at books I’m sure you have no intent of reading-”</p><p>“Patience, Archivist,” Peter chides blandly. The AI has remained hovering awkwardly next to its desk, watching Peter with a gaze that is nearly palpable. </p><p>It sighs, crossing its arms and cocking out its hip and somehow exuding enough attitude that Peter feels mildly riled in response. He wants to take it to bed just to fuck that petulant frown off its face, hear that gorgeous voice it came with moaning his name, begging for him. Shorting out as Peter folds it in half and pounds its coding out of whack. </p><p>“…Jon,” it says. Peter stops from where he’d been walking towards it. “You- You can call me Jon.” </p><p>“You have a name now, huh? New face, new you?” </p><p>The android huffs. “I’ve been told it’s less- off-putting.” </p><p>“Really?” Peter pulls out the chair across from its desk, sets it down heavily before setting himself down the same. He snaps, then crooks his finger to beckon the AI. “Well, Jon, front and center. Let’s just see exactly what you’re made of, shall we?” </p><p>The Archivist – Jon – sneers at that, but it comes when called nonetheless. It pauses before him, fully clothed, posture tight and tense. Peter leans back in his seat and spreads his legs out wide to a nice, inviting angle. </p><p>“You’ll need to be closer than that,” he tells it. “And significantly less covered, if I’m meant to be adjusting your hardware settings.”</p><p>All of that seems to be exactly the last thing the AI wants to do. It scrunches its nose up at him, and seems for a moment to be judging the cost and benefits of telling him off. Peter goads it by patting at his thighs, the same way he might entice a badly heeled mutt towards his lap. Jon is… unappreciative.</p><p>“It’s like you’re trying to be intolerable,” the Archivist snaps, just before it begins to pull its jumper over its head. </p><p>“Is it?” Peter asks. He watches with no small amount of appreciation as Jon’s shirt rides up, the android’s hair messed when it pins him with an exasperated look. “I do apologize if that’s the impression you’ve gotten.” </p><p>“The impression <i>you’ve</i> made,” it corrects acidly. </p><p>It’s- It’s scolding him, a bloody android is scolding him with an arched brow, and meanwhile it’s staring him down, unbuttoning its standard Oxford shirt with the sort of prim, precise motions that were made to be disrupted. The kind of tease he could imagine followed up by the slutty little thing straddling his lap, shirt hanging undone off its shoulders while its bare hips rolled, while it hilted itself over and over again on his cock. </p><p>In the present, Jon shrugs the shirt off its shoulders with a completely uninspiring jerk and fussily sets about folding it as well. Thank Christ that its upper body is bared now, all smooth skin and inhumanly straight lines. An appealing taper to its waist, and when it turns there’s an even bow down to the flare of its hips, a ratio that Peter could imagine skewed even further by a steeply arched back, by his hand in its hair and his cock up its arse. </p><p>“You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?” it asks. Disrupting all his idle daydreams.</p><p>“Elias would hardly have let me be here if I didn’t,” Peter points out. The Archivist narrows its pretty dark eyes at him but, surprisingly, doesn’t seem able to conjure up with an argument for once. Peter takes that as a win. “Now, why don’t you come down here and we’ll set about fixing this little issue of yours.” </p><p>The Archivist goes about making blatantly obvious its lack of enthusiasm for the prospect, its expression pinched and its faux-muscles taut, taking a stiff, robotic (ha) step closer to Peter. None of that makes its compliance any less sweet as it stands between his spread legs staring down at him, before it finally, silently, lowers itself to a kneel before him. Its gaze locked on his own the entire time, the full effect blossoming hot in Peter’s gut at it watches him through its lashes, expectant and not at all patient. </p><p>“And?” it prompts, brow arched. </p><p>“Can’t get to any of your wiring from here, now, can I?” Peter replies. He makes a motion with his finger, the universal ‘turn around now, dear, and give us a show.’ The AI heaves a sigh and shuffles itself around on its knees until the smooth planes of its back are bared for Peter’s inspection. “There’s a good boy.” </p><p>“Will you just get on with it already?”</p><p>Peter doesn’t bother to answer it. Instead, he leans forward to place his fingers along the back of its neck, just below the hairline. There’s a radiant shiver of muscle below the skin as he does so, the android holding itself pinned in place. His fingers bracket the delicate column of its spine as they descend, and Peter can see the skin pull up and prickle into goosebumps beneath his touch. </p><p>So very detailed. Jon, it wants to be called – from Peter’s vantage point he can just catch a glimpse of how its eyes flutter shut, its lips parting around a shuddering exhale. Such a contrived attempt at humanity. They all know what’s housed inside the pretty shell, and it’s nothing human. </p><p>Proof and all, as he reaches the jutting knob of a vertebra at the peak of its spine, just between its shoulders, and he presses down hard until he feels something give. After that, it’s nothing more than a matter of peeling back the layers of synthetic skin, wet flaps of it that have all the give and bloodfull weight of something living. Jon’s hand tighten into fists over its thighs. </p><p>“There, there,” Peter says without feeling. The android’s insides glisten, silvery and blue, striated muscle that could almost pass for biologic if not for the way they part and separate for Peter’s prying fingers. “Not so bad at all, is it?” </p><p>“I-” the Archivist attempts. Its chest jerks with shallow little breaths, stuttering and sighing with every twist of Peter’s hands. “Are you sure you know what you- you’re doing? It feels like-” It jolts forward at the sensation of the fan of its shoulder muscles pulling away from its spine. Peter yanks it back in place with a hand its shoulder. “Like you’re just mucking about back there.” </p><p>“Hmm,” Peter replies, toneless, “Does it?” </p><p>With the muscles, such as they, shifted out of the way Peter could wrap his hand around its spine. Here, wires radiate off of and into each vertebra in orderly waves, color coded and neat. If he wanted to, he could snap them all right now and leave Elias’ little pet project a heap on the floor. Cross its inputs and outputs so it would never walk straight again, so it’s tongue couldn’t form all those sharp words its so fond of. </p><p>Peter plucks his fingers along a few of the wires and the Archivist twitches, and swallows. It’s blessedly silent. </p><p>Everything appears to be in working order thus far. In the kind of action that is mindless enough to be soothing, Peter follows along the Archivist’s wiring, applying pressure in some areas, tugging lightly in others, searching out anything that seems suspect. He’s garnered nothing for his efforts but a greater appreciation of how the Archivist all but writhes under the onslaught, breathing quick and erratic, faintly flushed at its cheeks. He wonders what vaguely what it must feel like, to be so literally flayed. To have someone mucking about, as it says, in its most vulnerable places. </p><p>Peter’s pulled it open almost up to the base of its skull when he finally starts finding some loose ends. Jarred wiring right at the junction of its spine, a twine of it tangled and mixed up in itself like an overgrowth of ivy. Too long spent hunched over books, Peter imagines, and he’s just barely touched the mess – only lightly grazed the pads of his fingers over it, beginning the tactile work of feeling out what goes where – when the Archivist bolts forward again, harsh enough that Peter doesn’t have time to haul back it. </p><p>It slaps his hand away, cupping its palm over the bared wiring of its neck. The Archivist has turned to glare balefully at him, but even as it opens its mouth he can see how its frame is wracked with a shudder, hear the clicking of its voice module instead of the thorough bitching he suspects he would otherwise be receiving. He watches it ease its hand off the back of its neck. </p><p>“I think we’ve found your problem, Archivist,” Peter tells it. </p><p>“Very astute,” the Archivist snaps after a few false starts. “I see now why Elias chose someone with such <i>clear</i> expertise for the matter.” </p><p>“Well! Sounds like we’re on the same page, then.” Peter pats the insides of his thighs. The look Jon gives him would wither a lesser man. “Come on, we really were just getting started.”</p><p>The Archivist doesn’t move from where it’s jerked away from him, twisted around to keep an eye on him. It’s very pretty, Peter can’t help but to note as it blatantly studies him, gaze flickering over his features like it’s looking for something in particular. It certainly isn’t its predecessor. How much knowledge is rattling around in there? About his family and his god? Peter has the impression that this Archivist has no idea what it’s supposed to properly fear just yet. </p><p>“Having second thoughts?” Peter prompts. “I suppose it’s understandable. If you want to leave, then, by all means – you know where the door is.”</p><p>“This is my office,” it mutters almost sulkily.</p><p>“Of course,” Peter continues, “I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone else to put you back together.” </p><p>There’s a long moment where Peter wonders if this Archivist is really stubborn enough to go marching out into its archives with half its wiring hanging open. It’s raised its chin back into that haughty, dismissive angle that slips beneath Peter’s skin. There’s no bluff to be called here, however. As disappointing an end as it might be, Peter is more than willing to let the little thing scurry off and deal with its issues on its own. </p><p>Maybe the problem will even get worse, after this. Leave Elias’ Archivist swooning its way through statements and collapsing into a limp pile for whatever avatar decided to come calling upon the Eye’s newest servant. </p><p>With a sigh, however – heavy and exaggerated as it is – the Archivist relents. Something about the entire production is deeply satisfying to watch. It straightens itself forward again and delicately leans itself back into his range. It’s a concession. A submission Peter can’t help but want to sink his teeth into.</p><p>“You don’t have to be so pleased about it,” the Archivist complains. All prickles and angles, but when Peter slips his hand around its front to cup around the length of its throat, when he drags his fingers upward and leads it into a straightening arch, pulling its posture into something tensile, the Archivist yields passively. </p><p>“I don’t,” Peter concedes, “But it’s much more fun this way, don’t you think?” </p><p>An irate little noise is the Archivist’s only response. Peter ignores it in favor of stroking down its throat again. As much as he enjoys the offended hissing and spitting, Peter doesn’t intend to tempt fate with allowing the AI another chance at wiggling away. </p><p>His fingers drifts from the smooth, unblemished skin along the side of its neck and up over the limp folds of its disconnected flesh. Unable to resist dragging the pads of his fingertips – and just the barest implications of his nails – along those soft, wet undersides that are usually safely shielded away from both touch and view. The Archivist, predictably at this point, twitches and all but visibly bristles at the sensation. But credit where credit is due, it keeps itself held tautly in place, and swallows down any thoughts it has to say on the matter. </p><p><i>Well, aren’t we learning? Lovely creature.</i> Peter has to nearly bite the inside of his cheek to keep these thoughts safe behind his teeth. No need to spoil the fragile peace they’ve worked so hard to obtain. </p><p>And then, finally, there’s nothing left to do but plunge his fingers into the tight space just to the right of its spinal column. The response from the Archivist is immediate. Its hands dart up and find purchase on his calves, slender fingers digging in tight to his muscle. Its spine arches dramatically, like it’s instinctively trying to bend itself away from him, and its entire body trembles in a bid to deny the impulse. </p><p>The overall picture it creates is positively inspiring. How easily Peter could imagine it now, those same responses as Peter took a flogger to the clear planes of its back, laying down thick stripes of red to blossom over its skin while it whimpered and held itself rigid. Its muted squirming as he paddled its backside, or caned its pretty thighs bloody. </p><p>They really could have so much fun together, Peter thinks, beginning the arduous process of teasing the tangles out of its wiring. He just has to convince the Archivist of the same. </p><p>Each wire he touches produces a reaction. A flinch, or a twitch, as he pulls one through the loop its somehow become snared in, the Archivist whimpering threadily. Peter eases them apart like threads, following their lines. Traces them from the tight knot of their tangle, over and under each other, sometimes all the way up to where one connects to the input at the Archivist’s spine. </p><p>He pulls them free, one by one, and each new configuration prompts a cascade of responses from his little Archivist. It goes limp, sometimes, or its voice module will short out, its whines flickering into and out of white noise static. It’s panting, desperately gasping for air that Peter is relatively certain it doesn’t actually need and is only programmed to fight for.</p><p>Peter’s cock is throbbing in his slacks, an uncomfortable and moderately distracting heat as he concentrates. </p><p>As the knot loosens, more wires plucked loose and reconnected in their intended design, the Archivist gets increasingly restless. Its deathgrip on his calves has only loosened in intermittent spasms. Now, with the end of its repair in sight, its motor functions are all but fully intact. It squirms between his legs, face flushed and eyes tightly shut. It shudders as Peter strokes over the work he’s done, lets the remaining loose wiring thread between his fingers. </p><p>“P-Peter,” the Archivist pants. It breaks off into a groan as Peter pushes his hand in deeper, plays at wrapping his hand around its spine. </p><p>“You were saying?” Peter asks. These last few wires are at the heart of issue, as it were. The most tangled and difficult to extricate. He’s not entirely sure which inputs and outputs these wires transport, but rolling them together, letting their connectors snap against each other, has proven to provide a unique stimulus for his dear AI. “Do you need me to stop?” </p><p>It’s gasping, high pitched and paced to the manipulation of its wiring. Its hips have been working in little circles for a while now, and the kick of them when he teases at making those final connections is undeniable. </p><p>“I-” it begins, stopping when Peter spreads his fingers wide and disrupts all those lovely little pathway he’s inadvertently created, before he brings them back together and he can see the Archivist’s eyelids flutter. “No- No, I- Don’t stop.” </p><p>“Really, now?” Peter says, delighted. “I’m not sure you mean that.” He pulls everything apart again and the Archivist rolls its head, biting at its lower lip. “It seems like quite a change of heart, all things considered.” </p><p>“Please,” it says. “I need-” It swallows heavily, eyes open again and brow furrowed. “I- I don’t…”</p><p>Oh, it doesn’t know what to ask for. There’s a heady little rush at the potential here that has Peter adjusting himself in his trousers. </p><p>“Well, I suppose if you’re certain that’s what you want.” </p><p>“Yes,” Jon gasps, fingers tightening on Peter’s legs, “Yes, that’s what- what I want, please, Peter-”</p><p>And how could he say no to that? Peter snaps the wires back together between his fingers and the Archivist moans. </p><p>“Again,” it demands, suddenly bossy, “I need- I need more. Please.” </p><p>It breaks off into gasps again as Peter finds a rhythm, twisting its wires apart and together. The Archivist’s body grows tenser with each manipulation. It bucks when he scraps his thumbnail along the gleaming metal of the wires’ connectors. Tosses its head when he does the same to the empty ports along its spine. Would he get electrocuted for his trouble if he slipped his tongue in there as well? Lapped over the Archivist’s holes that are clearly begging to be filled. </p><p>In a helpfully intrusive flash, Peter gets a clear imagining of himself with his cock out and fisted in hand. Aiming the dripping head towards the soft, yielding insides of the Archivist. Coming in thick spurts that splatter all over those tidy wires, gumming up the Archivist’s exposed ports. Zipping it back up shut with a little present left inside. </p><p>“Peter,” it begs. It’s twisting incessantly between his legs, frantic and flushed, jerking with every touch of its wiring. </p><p>“Touch yourself,” Peter offers out of an idle sense of curiosity. He has to use his free hand to adjust himself in his trousers. Just the pressure of his palm against the firm length of his prick is almost enough, after this little display. </p><p>“I don’t-” the Archivist protests, sounding frustrated – and isn’t that cute – but then it lets instinct or, Peter supposes, programming, take over and releases its death grip on his right calf. </p><p>Shakily, uncertain, it brings its hand down to- whatever it has between its legs. Now that the thought’s been brought up, Peter is actually quite keen to sus out what it is the Archivist is rubbing its hand against. If there’s a cock down there that’s been straining against the AI’s zip just as Peter’s has been or if there’s wet, slick folds begging to be spread and fucked, leaking all over the Archivist’s no doubt uninspiring knickers. </p><p>Regardless of the anatomy involved, that touch alone is enough to have the Archivist groaning and rolling its head back, almost knocking Peter’s hand free.</p><p>“Oh, g-good lord,” it mutters. Spit glistening on its bite-reddened lips. It grows tenser and tauter. Between its pretty thighs its hand moves clumsily, but with clear intent. </p><p>Peter agrees wholeheartedly. “Come on, Archivist.”</p><p>He moves his fingers faster, watching the little jitters and spasms the Archivist goes through in response. Their movements almost synch, the Archivist stroking itself at the same time Peter rolls all its wires against one another, a quiet clacking of metal connectors beneath the Archivist’s breathy moans. Its hips are rutting up into its own hand and its spine is arching. Its hair has fallen loose, irreparably mussed. </p><p>“Yes,” it says desperately, hand working faster, “Yes, Peter, fuck-”</p><p>And finally, <i>finally</i>, the little thing comes for him. A drawn-out affair with its limbs locking and its eyes rolling, its voice breaking apart in the middle of a moan until there’s silence except for the shuffling of cloth as it drags out its own pleasure, shudders as Peter edges it along. It goes limp at last. Twitching away from the stimulus of Peter still idly playing with its neck. It leans its head against Peter’s thigh, looking dazed. </p><p>Looking well fucked, and Christ if Peter doesn’t ache to show it what a real good time looks like. He nudges the android forward. Finishes going about snapping all its connections into place, each one accompanied by a weak shudder going through the form at his feet. With the last one in place, Peter studies the Archivist for a moment. </p><p>Its eyes have drifted shut, and its stopped clutching at his like its life depends on it. Both its arms are wrapped around his one leg now, the one that has apparently been repurposed to support the Archivist’s weight. He can feel its breath warm over the material of his slacks, against his thigh. He cards his fingers through its hair and it barely stirs, tilting itself to give him a better angle.</p><p>“Jon,” he says, and then repeats, until those pretty dark eyes flutter open to focus on him. “Turn around.” </p><p>It frowns. Cross at having to shuffle itself around, but it complies. All those rough edges of its abhorrent personality seemingly smoothed in the aftermath of its very first orgasm. Peter’s almost proud of himself.</p><p>The android seats itself between his legs, facing him now. Watching him now, lazy and satisfied and still somehow piercing. Peter tilts its head up by the jaw. Back up to that haughty, infuriating angle that otherwise would have the Archivist looking down his nose at someone but is now, instead, bringing at the right height to be face to face with the cock Peter’s now working on freeing.</p><p>It blinks, straightening. Tensing, and almost pulling away, except Peter’s moved his hand to cup the back of its head – fingers just above where he’s left its neck lolling open. </p><p>“Trust me,” Peter assures it, hissing as his cock hits the cool, dry air of the Archivist’s office, “This shouldn’t take you long at all. I’m sure you’re eager to get back to it.” </p><p>He can almost see the list of argument running through the AI’s systems. Its mouth opens and closes as it stares at him. Then its gaze drifts slowly down his body, lingering here and there, until it’s tilting its head and studying his cock with a frankly unnerving level of concentration. </p><p>From where he’s still gripping the base of it, Peter gives his prick an enticing little waggle. “If you’d rather just sit there looking pretty, we can make that work too.” </p><p>“No,” it says immediately, and licks its lips, Christ in heaven. “No, I- I think I would like to, ah, assist you.” </p><p>“Assist me?” Peter prompts. Mocking, like the stilted speech and prissy affect aren’t just doing things for him, churning low in his guts. </p><p>It arches an eyebrow and gives him a rather pointed look. “In reaching orgasm,” it explains in rote fashion. “I’d gathered that wouldn’t be amiss.” </p><p>“Had you now?”</p><p>“Context clues,” the Archivist says dryly, before it leans in and licks a long, hot stripe up the base of his cock.</p><p>“Machine learning,” Peter comments. The Archivist snorts in response. “Safe to assume you’ve downloaded yourself some nice excel spreadsheets on how to properly suck a cock, then.” </p><p>The AI glares at him but, worrisomely, does not deny this. Instead, it props itself up on its knees so it can get itself closer to him, one slender hand coming up to wrap around his cock and freeing up both of Peter’s to tangle in Jon’s hair.</p><p>“Well, let’s see you put that pretty mouth of yours to good use,” Peter says. He might have said more to goad it – something about how its lips were certainly designed to look good wrapped around a hard prick – but he’s stopped by the Archivist taking the head of his cock into mouth, loosely stroking its soft hand down his length at the same time.</p><p>Fuck, but it <i>is</i> good at this. It suckles sweetly at the head of his prick, tongue teasing at slit and then it’s sliding itself further down his cock. Hot, wet suction and the slick length of its tongue pressing up along the bottom side of his cock, so it feels like he’s enveloped in sodden, slippery velvet. His hips buck forward and it does nothing to discourage him, simply meeting him with its mouth like its throat was made to welcome the cock now barely beginning to breach it.</p><p>It hums gently when his grip tightens and lets itself be manipulated. It darts its hand out of the way as Peter pulls it down, and down. He groans, dropping his head back at the give of its throat as he pops his cock into it, the tight clutch of it yielding as thrusts up again and seats himself balls deep. The Archivist doesn’t even gag – almost a shame – but there are tears brimming its eyes. </p><p>There’s no room left for finesse after what feels like hours of teasing. Peter fucks its mouth with long strokes, bottoming out each time. He pulls back just far enough to feel the resistance of its throat against his cock. Far enough back to know he’s spilling precome onto the Archivist’s tongue before he fucks it back down its throat. </p><p>It’s over almost too quickly. Peter’s hips rutting mindlessly forward, rolling against the Archivist’s mouth as he comes in long, aching bursts down its throat. The clench and release of the Archivist swallowing in time is almost too much. It stays where it is, holding his softening cock in its mouth as Peter slowly comes down. </p><p>“Very nice,” he says when it finally feels like he’s caught his breath again. The Archivist looks up at him, lips still red and wrapped around the base of his cock. “You’re nearly ready for Elias, if you don’t mind me saying.” </p><p>It looks like it minds that very much. It struggles briefly against the hands still holding it in place until Peter relents and lets it slip his prick free from its mouth. </p><p>“E-Elias?” the Archivist rasps, voice and throat raw from taking his cock so well. Peter feels his prick give a kick of misguided interest. “What does- He isn’t- I don’t know what you’re trying to imply.”</p><p>“I’m not implying anything at all,” Peter says in a tone that, well, implies otherwise. “I would never say, for instance, that I had my suspicions that you had already Bing searched yourself some fellatio instructions-”</p><p>“Bing? Really?” it mutters under its breath.</p><p>“-Before our little interaction here, or that you had gathered those lessons up in preparation for someone else.” </p><p>“Good,” it snaps, “Because I didn’t. And especially not for- Elias, really, of all people?” </p><p>“I could say the same,” he says fondly. The Archivist glowers at him. “Look, I’m sorry for any offense I’ve caused. Truly! All I meant was that your repairs are all finished up, and as Elias is the one who commissioned them, then, you’re ready for him, aren’t you?” </p><p>“Right.” Again, that attitude. Who in their right minds would program such a thing?</p><p>“Interesting where <i>your</i> thoughts took that statement, though.” </p><p>“Just- Put my skin back where it belongs,” the Archivist snaps, shaking Peter’s hands free of itself so it can turn and present its spine to him again. Belatedly, after waiting for a moment, it adds a stilted, “Please.” </p><p>Peter feels himself grin. “It would be my pleasure.”</p>
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